


Given More For Less

by Lady_T_220



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:10:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220/pseuds/Lady_T_220
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hardly money for nothing, but it's the closest he could think of</p>
            </blockquote>





	Given More For Less

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic prompt meme - [Original Prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=101848#t101848)

The first time it happens, it's just a glance of something out the corner of his eye that pricks at Douglas's subconscious. Barely a flash of something he can't place, something awkward and familiar but gone before he can work out what it reminds him of.

He's driving home from visiting his daughter at the time. It's late, he's jet-lagged after a long flight from LA and he's not completely certain his eyes aren't just playing tricks on him. He blinks to clear the fuzz that's trying to take over his vision and when he looks again he can't work out what it was that caught his attention in the first place. He shakes his head in exhaustion and thinks only of getting home in one piece and finally getting some sleep.

The second time though... well the second time he knows he's not imagining things.

It's not the nicest part of town, but it's the shortest route between the 24-hour Tesco and home. It's a necessary evil because despite virtually living on Gertie of late, he does actually have a place to go to between trips and a kitchen that occasionally needs filling with things that are edible.

But all of that is entirely irrelevant, because between one place and the other there is a strip of wasteland. It's a vacant plot, lodged between a dilapidated garage and a timber yard, the sort of place where local knowledge will assure you a man can sometimes get certain _needs_ met. At least you can if your standards aren't too high and your cash is suitably ready. The sort of needs that are accompanied by a nod and a wink and heavy reliance on a belief that the police aren't interested enough in the situation to do anything about a handful of prostitutes getting rained on at the corner of an industrial estate.

It doesn't bother Douglas particularly. He's known enough ladies of dubious repute over the years, probably slept with a fair few of them as well if he's honest, so he doesn't especially notice them as he drives past. Because it isn't the ladies who grab his attention this time, despite their short skirts and painted smiles. What grabs his attention is the lone, slim figure of a man.

Not the most unusual sight perhaps, but it's a lone figure that is almost impossibly familiar even though he's virtually unrecognisable under tight clothes and sharply-angled streetlamps. It's a man who takes one look at Douglas's car and seems to flood with panic before he hastily curls into the shadows like a startled jackrabbit.

A lone figure who looks distressingly like Martin.

It's impossible, of course. It can't be, it absolutely can't be him, and besides it's well known that everybody has a double out there somewhere in the world. Martin's just happens to be working the corner at a junction of the B674 ring-road. That's all it is, just a weird, weird coincidence. Because the alternative is just preposterous.

Douglas tells himself as such, over and over during his weekend off.

He just wishes he was more able to believe it.

Douglas sees him again on Sunday night. He goes out with the sole purpose of finding him if he's honest, just to prove it one way or another because the idea point blank refuses to leave him alone. It makes no _sense_ , that's the problem, and it needles him until he finally gives up and gets in the car. The night is freezing and wet, and when Douglas spots him at last the man is absolutely drenched. It's pissing it down, it has been for hours, and there's something about the slump in his posture and the air of defeat in the hang of his head that settles cold and a little nauseous in the pit of Douglas's stomach.

The man doesn't run this time, but that's because he doesn't spot the car until it's almost abreast with him, the rain so hard it blurs the edges of the passing vehicles. It's only when Douglas slows and starts winding the window down that the man seems to jerk into alertness, a flash of horror on his face before he turns and tries to creep away as unobtrusively as possible.

"Martin?"

Douglas's voice is muted by the downpour but he sees the man flinch, a split-second hesitation in his step even as he struggles to keep his face hidden from the road.

"It is you, isn't it? What the hell are you doing out here?"

Martin ignores him, a pretence of non-recognition though Douglas knows he never was a good liar. He keeps his arms wrapped protectively around his chest, rain sheeting off bare skin so pale it's almost blue from the cold. His gaze remains firmly fixed on the pavement in front of him, pace increasing as he tries to walk away as fast as he can from Douglas's presence.

It forces Douglas to speed up a little, trying to match his pace in the car. "Martin for God's sake get in, you'll catch your death."

There's a flicker of something almost like grief in the way Martin's fingers clench against his upper arms, but he won't meet Douglas's stare and he escapes at the first opportunity that presents itself by veering sharply down the darkened footpath between two buildings.

He gets lost in the shadows barely a second later and Douglas curses, staring out into the rain before taking the next junction and heading for home.

\---

The airfield was bright but wet when Douglas arrived the next morning, the rain only just halted from the downpour that hammered Fitton through the night. He was the last to arrive, he invariably was, and he cast an assessing look over the dingy interior of the MJN portacabin. Martin looked exactly the same as he always did and Douglas narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"A moment, if you don't mind, _Captain_?" he said and Martin glanced up from the pile of paperwork he was wading through. The look on his face was typically open and entirely blank, innocent of suspicion as if the night before had never even happened.

"What, Douglas?" Martin said impatiently. "I know we're on stand-by this week but I do actually have a lot of things that need to be done."

"Wanted a word with you in private. Personal matter," Douglas said, and Martin shook his head.

"I really don't have time, Douglas, I'm sorry," Martin replied. "Carolyn's given me three months of reports to go over because _someone_ hasn't been filling in their flight log, so if it isn't airline business it's just going to have to wait."

"Speaking of the great she-wolf," Douglas said, "Arthur, is Carolyn in her office?"

Arthur glanced up from where he was assembling a fleet of paper planes out of complimentary napkins. He shook his head.

"Mum? No, she's popped out to argue with somebody about something. She didn't tell me what but she had that gleam in her eye. You know, the scary one?"

"I know it well," Douglas replied. "In which case we can safely assume she will be some while yet?"

"Oh, hours, I should imagine. Hours and hours and hours... and hours..."

"Indeed," Douglas interrupted. "In which case, you have time to do a little job for me. I'll even let you borrow my car to do it in."

"Wow!" Arthur exclaimed. "Brilliant! Your car's much nicer than my car. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you," Douglas said, "To pop into Fitton and find three of the largest, stickiest, creamiest buns you can possibly get your hands on, and bring them here so we can eat them."

"Buns!" Arthur grinned. "I love buns! Where should I go to get them?"

"Try a bun shop," Douglas said, tossing his keys to Arthur. "Failing that, a cake shop. Failing that, a tea shop. Failing that, Sainsbury's. And remember, big, sticky, creamy. I want three of them, one for me, one for you, one for Martin, and I'll even let you pay."

"Ohh, thanks Douglas!" Arthur beamed. "You can count on me!" The door of the cabin slammed shut behind him, silence descending for a moment before Douglas turned and leaned meaningfully on the edge of Martin's desk.

"Now that I've got rid of him, Martin, we really have to talk."

"No, we really don't," Martin replied, still engrossed in his paperwork.

"No, we really, really do have to talk. About last night," Douglas ground out.

Martin barely paused. "Why, what happened last night?"

"Don't play stupid," Douglas said. "I know it was you, Martin, it's not the first time I've seen you there. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Martin flung his pen down with a huff of annoyance.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, "I was home all night, reading a nice book on aerodynamics, now are you going to let me get on with my paperwork or not?"

"Oh don't be ridiculous," Douglas snapped. "Pretending it didn't happen doesn't mean I didn't see you. You're going to get hurt if you keep going there."

Martin pushed his chair back sharply, getting to his feet.

"I don't know what you think you're accusing me of, but if you're quite done-"

Martin turned, ready to stalk off, teeth gritted and back stiff when Douglas's hand shot out, wrapping around Martin's wrist over the cuff of his uniform jacket.

The hold wasn't tight but Martin flinched at the contact, unable to contain the sharp yelp of pain that followed. Douglas froze, grip loosening as his other hand jerked up Martin's sleeve, revealing a livid scarlet bruise around his wrist.

"Martin, these are finger prints," Douglas said accusingly. Martin was unnaturally still, unblinking, his chest rising and falling on sharp, shallow breaths as he stared in dismay at the grip wrapped round his arm.

Douglas reached for Martin's other hand, finding another set of bruises there, dark and swollen under his cuffs and Douglas shook his head, pity warring with blind fury inside him.

"What happened, Martin?" he managed.

"It just got a bit rough, that's all," Martin said weakly. His eyes fluttered shut as Douglas ran his thumb carefully over the abraded skin. He could feel Martin trembling.

"Oh, damnit, Martin... Why didn't you just get in the car? You went back after I left, didn't you?" Douglas sighed and Martin nodded fractionally. "Where else are you hurt?"

Martin pressed a hand gingerly against his side, unresisting as Douglas pulled the uniform shirt up to get a better look, cursing quietly at the sight. The bruises were deep and blotchy, shaped like fists against Martin's painfully thin body.

"Christ-"

"It didn't look too bad last night..." Martin managed.

"Looks bloody awful now," Douglas said. "And I can see your ribs. Don't you ever eat?"

Martin peeled his eyes open, catching the edge of Douglas's expression before turning his face away, humiliated.

"Of course I eat..."

"I meant when you're not here," Douglas said. "I've seen you hoover down Arthur's microwaved monstrosities before, but the last couple of weeks especially you've-" He paused. "How long has this been going on?"

Martin swallowed thickly. "Since the van failed its MOT. I can't afford to get it fixed and without it I can't work and... if I don't work I don't have an income."

"You didn't think to ask me for help?" Douglas said. "Or Arthur? Even Carolyn would have done something. I know she complains a lot but she doesn't actively want you to get yourself beaten up in your spare time."

"I couldn't," Martin whimpered. "I just... I know you're still in the middle of your divorce and you have child maintenance payments and you don't have any spare money either. And Carolyn's always saying how the company's in so much debt, and I couldn't go back to being useless again, Douglas. I've spent my whole life being useless and I needed to fix it myself-" His eyes were wide and blue and wet, pleading for Douglas to understand. "It was just going to be once or twice. It's not like it mattered if something bad happened, no one else had to know, but every time I... I couldn't do it... I kept bottling out." He was crying now, numbly letting tears fall. "And then I really ran out of money and the rent was overdue and we'd been so busy here I didn't have time to find another real job, so I made myself go through with it and... and it..." his voice trembled. "It really _hurt_ , Douglas. I didn't think it was going to hurt that much."

"Oh, Martin..."

Douglas's voice was pitched low and dismayed, pulling Martin's unresisting body against his chest to envelop him in a hug. Martin shuddered and let out a shaky sob, burying his face against Douglas's jacket. He felt terrifyingly small in Douglas's embrace, as if a stiff breeze could snap him, slim fingers pale against the navy fabric of his blazer.

"You can't do it again," Douglas said quietly and Martin nodded against his shoulder. "We'll figure something out but this is not the answer. I can't believe you even thought it was. You're not cut out for that sort of life, Martin. You're going to wind up getting seriously hurt, and I don't mean by some meat-head too eager with his fists."

Martin flinched as Douglas's hand settled against a tender patch on his back.

"Did you even give a moment's thought to all the things out there a trip to the clap clinic and some antibiotics can't fix?" Douglas could feel the anger still burning in his chest and he shook his head. "I know desperation makes people do stupid things, Martin, but this is spectacular even for you."

Martin didn't reply, he just seemed to sag against the support of Douglas's body. From the way he held himself it was obvious he was still in a great deal of pain, probably from more than just bruises, and Douglas sighed heavily.

"As soon as Arthur comes back with my car I'm taking you home," Douglas said. "Don't worry about Carolyn or the stand-by, she can't fly with a sick pilot anyway."

Martin twitched as if he was about to argue but Douglas's hand on the back of his neck seemed to still him again. "Just trust me on this. For once, Martin, just trust me."

\---

"What do you mean you've sent him home?" Carolyn gaped. "Un-send him, I need two pilots, I've got a demented Russian oligarch paying me to have two pilots sitting in a portacabin for the next seven days just in case he wants to go somewhere. I can't do that if one of them's popped home because he's feeling a bit peaky. What did you say to him? He was fine earlier."

"He was not fine, Carolyn," Douglas glared.

"He was fine enough to be asking for paperwork," she said. Carolyn's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're being frightfully concerned for Martin's well-being, what are you up to?"

"For once," Douglas said, "Genuinely nothing. I took him home because he almost collapsed." There was an awkward pause before Douglas tried again, voice serious. "Carolyn, you have to start paying the boy."

Carolyn raised one eyebrow. "Do I? You are aware that he signed a contract agreeing to work for zero, therefore I don't _have_ to pay him anything. Besides, Martin already has a regular job. He does things with his van."

"No," Douglas, said slowly. "He _had_ another job. Until his van broke. Only because he spends all his time flying your plane for nothing, he hasn't been able to earn enough to get it fixed. And because of that, he hasn't been able to earn anything _at all_. He isn't eating, Carolyn. This isn't a battle of wills over the petty cash box and complimentary biscuits. How good a captain are you going to have if he faints in the middle of a flight because he's living on hot water and Arthur's cooking?"

Carolyn frowned, concern creasing her brow even deeper than usual.

"It's not a question of wanting or not-wanting to pay him, Douglas," she admitted with a sigh. "I know he has his flaws but I also know he's the only captain we've got. I just genuinely don't have any money left with which to pay another salary. This business lives hand-to-mouth already, it's so bogged down in debts I simply can't afford it. And yes, I appreciate the dilemma. The only reason we're still running is because Martin is willing to work for free. It puts us in a rather nasty Catch 22, and it's one we're going to stay in unless you have any particularly bright ideas."

"What about Arthur," Douglas said. "Surely he doesn't need paying, seeing as he lives with you anyway?"

"Indeed he does not," Carolyn replied. "Which is why I don't pay him either. He works for in-flight peanuts and pineapple juice. Likewise I don't draw a wage from this mess, in fact the only person making any money out of this company, Douglas, is you."

"Oh," he replied. There was a long pause. "This is your way of saying that if I want Martin to have a pay rise, I have to have a pay cut of the same size, isn't it?"

"Very astute of you indeed, yes, so you can see why I didn't bother mentioning it." Carolyn stared hard at Douglas across the desk.

Douglas pursed his lips. "I can't believe I'm going to say this."

"Say what?" Carolyn said suspiciously.

"I'll meet you half way."

She gawped at him. "Half way to where?"

"Half way to minimum wage for the hours he flies. The rest you have to find yourself. I have a daughter and a collection of ex-wives to support. You, on the other hand, won't have an airline at all if you don't damn well pay your captain."

"Good God," she said, quietly. "You're actually serious. You would take a pay cut in favour of Martin?"

"Looks that way doesn't it," Douglas murmured.

"You're honestly worried about him, aren't you?" She said. "What aren't you telling me?"

Douglas looked away, eyes hardening. "Nothing that is my place to say."

"You chose a fine time to discover discretion," Carolyn huffed. "If one of my crew is in trouble, I need to know about it. Don't make me send Arthur, he can badger the truth out of anybody."

"Don't you dare," Douglas warned. "For once, you're just going to have to believe me that it is honestly none of your business."

Carolyn looked at him contemplatively for a long moment.

"Fine," she said. "If it means so much to you. I will pay Martin minimum wage for the hours he flies. But not the hours he spends doing paperwork or we'll all be bankrupt. You will pay for half, I will pay for half, and to make back some of the difference you will run the most economical flights humanly possible. No more unauthorised stops, no diversions, delays, accidents, tricks, lies or snapping the knobs off the kitchen cupboards because Brazilian vending machines accept them as legal tender. You will stay in the cheapest hotels, eat the cheapest food, drink the cheapest water from the cheapest taps and I'm revoking your right to the cheese tray."

"You drive a hard bargain," Douglas growled.

"It's the only way to survive. Do we have a deal?"

"Alright," Douglas nodded. "Deal. But on one condition."

"And what would that be?"

"You don't tell Martin. Not a word about this."

"Heaven forbid, he might think you liked him," Carolyn murmured. "Now since you sent Martin home for secretive reasons known only to yourself, you can go and do his paperwork for him as well."

\---

Douglas closed the front door and toed off his shoes with a sigh, dropping his car keys into the dish by the door. There was light spilling out from the living room, the muffled chatter of the TV on low, and he paused on the threshold unwilling to disturb the simple, quiet pleasure of finding somebody else at home.

Martin was curled up on the sofa, arms wrapped protectively around his chest, deeply and exhaustedly asleep. There were dark smudges under his eyes that hadn't been so visible that morning, evidence of too many nights with nowhere near enough rest. His shoes were under the coffee table, socked feet curled together, knees drawn up towards his bruised stomach as if trying to take up as little space as possible. His mouth was open a fraction, lax and breathing shallowly, a plate visibly licked clean of toast crumbs sitting on the floor by the arm of the sofa.

It wasn't a complete lie. Douglas _had_ taken Martin home to begin with. But Martin's home had been damp and un-heated, the ancient coin-fed electric meter sitting on empty, and Douglas just hadn't had the heart to leave him there. After all, there was plenty of space now that Helena had left, and buying enough groceries for two had proven to be rather a difficult habit to break.

It wasn't going to be permanent. Of course it wasn't. That would be ridiculous. Just a few weeks to get Martin's feet back under him. A few regular meals. A little meat on his scarily visible bones, that was all.

As he pulled the duvet off the spare bed and draped it over Martin's sleeping form, Douglas considered the fact that he'd never been especially good at lying to himself. And since he was going to be running a little short for the foreseeable future, it might be sort of useful having a flatmate.

Martin seemed like just the sort of person who would probably really enjoy doing the washing up.


End file.
